Headlock
by AngelsCondom
Summary: A year and a half after Reichenbach, Sherlock has returned to John. But John is not in a good state, having suffered already one mental breakdown where he hallucinated that Sherlock had returned. He is wary this time, thinking the hallucinations have returned. But will this case be too much for Sherlock to crack?


**AN: **This is a quick little fic I wrote at the urging of a friend named Haley B, and therefore I dedicate it to her. It is one of my few unbeta'd pieces, so please excuse any minor mistakes! Enjoy, and please let me know what you think! I love hearing any feedback!

It was happening again. Everyone said it was different this time, but it wasn't. They were lying, and John knew it, playing along with the crazy scheme. John sat on his sofa, staring at the man standing by the window, looking out onto the street below. His soft brown curls were the exact shade John had memorized, his stance and posture perfect. If John didn't know better, he would have thought that Sherlock had really come back this time. But the sad part was, he knew it couldn't be true.

The man by the window spoke, but John blocked out his words. The voice was right too, and the words would be too much for him. His imagination always planned this perfectly. No matter what, it always made the likeness of Sher- no, he couldn't say _that name_. It would be too much. The man was gone, John would just have to accept that and move on. John continued staring straight ahead, his hands on his knees, even as the likeness of the great man kneeled before him, a look of concern on his- its- face. He had to keep reminding himself it wasn't a real person. Just a hallucination.

John stood, ignoring the other man as he followed him up the stairs. John had almost left the flat at 221b for somewhere where reminders of _him_ weren't everywhere, but when John had begun packing, he found he couldn't bear the thought of leaving. Mrs. Hudson still came up sometimes, still made John force food down his throat. He was never hungry, really, not anymore. His appetite had been lost when _he_ died. Watching the man fall, John couldn't erase the image from his mind, before the other person had hit him. Then the bloody body- John shut his mind down at this point, knowing where these thoughts always lead.

He ascended the stairs, the weight of lifting each leg causing him to wonder just how many bottles of whiskey he had drank tonight. He lost count more often than he kept it, these days, so there was really no telling. He managed to reach the top without falling, not noticing that this was largely due to the two hands on his back guiding him. He reached the bedroom and managed to make it to the bed before his knees gave out, his sobbing cries echoing through the room. He barely felt the hand patting his back, and he most definitely did not hear the voice in his ear, whispering sweet nothings, trying something, _anything_, to be heard. But John had deafened himself to the world, locked himself away in his own mind.

Sherlock lifted John into bed. He knew he was real, even if John wouldn't believe him, wouldn't hear the words he said. The psychiatrist Sherlock had been meeting with had told him to try to make life as normal as possible, and perhaps John would someday wake up and hear him, believe him. The last time John had thought Sherlock was here, Sherlock had actually been fighting off Moriarty's web, and he really had been John's imagination. But people had foolishly played along, pretending Sherlock was back, so that John would be happy again as his mind played tricks on him. The fools had led him on, rather than trusting him to take what had needed to be the truth. They didn't know that John was strong enough to take it, strong enough to deal with the grief. Sherlock had no doubt that he was; but what could he do now? All that was left was a broken shell, created when John had realized that he was living in a dream world, that Sherlock was "really" dead. He had put himself in a mental headlock; locking himself inside his own mind for protection.

If they had all stuck to Sherlock's plan, everything would have gone fine. But they hadn't; they had taken the easy road out, preferring immediate comfort to long-term benefits. They had been idiots, to allow this to happen when Sherlock had been occupied. He had asked them to keep John safe, from both himself and others. What had they done? Ruined him. Reduced him to a whimpering shell, a man too afraid to be wrong and suffer heartbreak again than to open up and embrace the truth. No Sherlock was here to pick up the pieces. He climbed into bed next to John, like they had done every night for a few months before Reichenbach, and draped his arm over John's sleeping form. John may not feel it, but Sherlock did. He felt enough for both of them.

John woke the next morning to the smell of tea and biscuits. He sat up slowly, holding his aching head in his hands, before realizing he was going to be sick. As he lurched off the bed in the general direction of the loo, he felt a hand on his arm. John almost looked up, before remembering it was an illusion, not real. He had dealt with patients of post-traumatic stress disorder before, and he knew how real hallucinations could seem to a patient. Well, he might be the patient now, but he wasn't going to be fooled by his own mind. He wouldn't let the fantasy overwhelm him again. He let the hand guide him to the loo, nonetheless, but tried his best to ignore it as he retched into the toilet bowl. The hand was on his back now, patting and rubbing gently, though he refused to acknowledge it.

He finished his courting session with the toilet soon enough, but he was used to this by now. After the last time the man had "shown up", he had finally realized he was not real. After that, he had taken to this cycle, protecting himself with a bottle of whiskey and alone. Sherlock had been right. Alone protected him. And it always would, now that he knew this dream would keep coming back, day after day, to haunt him. The whiskey numbed the pain enough to keep from killing himself, though more than once he had wandered to St. Bart's hospital with that very intention. Mycroft or Molly had met him each time, turning him around and walking him home. Sometimes they tried to stay and make conversation, but they had given up on trying to get him to talk now. The only person- thing- that kept that up now was this hallucination of _him_.

John didn't bother getting dressed. He had picked up some more alcohol yesterday, enough to last today and possibly even tomorrow if he tried to ration it. He walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, where breakfast was on the table. Only one plate, for him; nothing for the hallucination. Mrs. Hudson must have laid it out. The man was trying to say something now, the voice speaking, but John refused to let himself hear. He was getting pretty good at this now, making the words people said run together. There was nothing left to say, anyway. He was dead, and none of them could change that, no matter how much they wanted to, no matter how much he wanted it. No matter how much he wanted Sherlock back, what they had had before the events that day. That kind of relationship… He didn't think he would be able to handle it again with anyone else.

"I made the biscuits fresh this morning, John. And I picked up the grape jam fresh from the market yesterday. You used to love it from that stall, but it took me a while to find it. I only had the label to go on; you never did tell me where you bought it. The cigar ash on the bottom of the label helped though; I happen to know a man at one of the markets who is quite fond of it. Sure enough, I found the jam."

There was still no response to his words, there had never been, but still he talked. The doctors told him that it was useless, that John was locked away, but he hadn't given up yet. He didn't intend to either; he had always prided himself on persistence. John was a particularly interesting case, he told himself. He would have to work hard to crack through its- his- shell.

"I ate earlier. Some of the older biscuits though, I saved the fresh ones for you. As usual." Sherlock sighed as he sat down in the chair. Today was three months since he had first come in that door, the only day he had seen a reaction out of John. After his initial shock, John had locked himself away again. That first day though, John had looked so hopeful, so full of joy, that Sherlock could only hope that he could see that expression on his face again. It was what kept him focused, his goal of getting John back again- _his _John back.

The biscuits tasted like gravel on his tongue, but they were slightly warm and John supposed they would taste alright if he would let himself taste it. But then the jam… it would remind him of all of the good times with the man. Before that day. Before his life had been ruined the first time. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see those bright, intelligent eyes. But they were marred, the cool glaze of death clouding the light that had always shone through. The look in those eyes in the months when they had professed their love- or rather, John had professed his love while Sherlock analyzed him and never disagreed in public or private or in the bedroom- had been one of delight, of a burning hunger for more, always more of _something_.

It hit John suddenly, the realization. He had thought his name- Sherlock's name. It hurt, but not like it had before. Perhaps if he could focus on the good memories, and not the lifeless, dull resemblance that had lay on the pavement that cool afternoon, he could get through this. For the first time in months, he saw a tiny glimmer of hope sparkle. He ignored the fact that this glimmer looked rather like the gleam in Sherlock's eyes, before the rooftop, but rather focused on the fact that it was there at all. The hallucination had its back to him- it seemed like it was washing dishes- so John looked at it a moment. It didn't hurt so much. A year and a half, and the pain was beginning to fade.

But as the figure turned, the sharpness of its cheekbones, the glimmer in its eyes from the fact that John was looking at it, sent John spiraling downwards, reminded of all of the good times but recalling the fact that they could never have them again. That this life he was living was a half-life, his other half buried in the cemetery under six feet of cold, hard dirt. That John's heart might as well be buried with it, for all of the love he could feel now. Moriarty might be gone, never to bother them again, but so was Sherlock. The name hurt again, the glimmer of hope faded, and John looked away, even as the hallucination kneeled before him, talking in a stream of noise. The look on its face was so hopeful that John closed his eyes shut tight and squeezed his hands over his ears, blocking out the sight and sound. His heart was buried. Perhaps it was safer there.

When Sherlock saw that the sight of him was hurting John again, he left the room quickly, calling Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye on him, to make sure that John didn't do anything too rash. Sherlock sighed as he sat heavily down on his bed, bouncing slightly with it as it absorbed his weight. He could calculate the chances that John would come back to him, but something told him that he didn't want to know. That the chances would be too abysmal for him to bear to see. It was moments like this though, when John looked slightly hopeful, that Sherlock hoped he could build upon to make what they had come back. John had taught Sherlock how to feel love, and it was about time that Sherlock returned the favour. It was just so hard to hurt John like this in order to get there.

He had tried rebuilding experiences, such as the first time they met, but John would have no part of that, refusing to speak or even go near the places they used to go. Sherlock had tried to talk him out of his shell, but it was as though John was physically deaf for all the good it did. He had tried everything his brilliant mind could think of before he had gone in to talk to John's psychiatrist. Though he hadn't been able to talk to Sherlock about John specifically, he had been able to tell Sherlock some good strategies to use. He had also tried to analyze Sherlock, but Sherlock had shut him up pretty quickly with a few well-placed remarks about his affair with a married nurse. The strategies had been somewhat helpful though. They all boiled down to one thing though; taking life back to normal and waiting. It was driving Sherlock insane. He wondered if his mind could make it through the process of healing John's.

When he opened his eyes again, the hallucination had gone. It would be back though, it always was. Perhaps if it left he could try to heal, to live a semblance of a normal life. Not that he could even have any life without Sherlock in it- there; he could still think the name. It was an improvement over yesterday, at least. Now he could reward himself with a bottle of whiskey. He walked towards the sink, but stopped short when he saw Mrs. Hudson there, pouring his whiskey down the drain. He couldn't hear her scolding words, but the tone his ears heard was one of severe chastisement. She was still going on when John walked up the stairs towards their room. If he couldn't have alcohol, perhaps sleep would be sweet and not give him dreams. Or perhaps he would never wake up. That would be fine by him.

When he pushed the door open though, he stopped again. On the bed was the hallucination of Sherlock, and it was looking up in surprise, something the real Sherlock would never do. The real Sherlock would never have let himself be surprised. This Sherlock got up though, and walked towards him with a look of concern and pity mixed on its face. John had never seen the real Sherlock show this much emotion. Of course, this wasn't the real Sherlock, but it just went to prove that it was only a hallucination. That Sherlock wasn't coming back, because he would never let them play along, to treat John this way. To treat him like they would a common insane person. He would never have stood by. So John turned away from him as he walked toward the bed, wishing more than ever that death would come sweetly and reunite him with Sherlock.

Sherlock could barely hide the look of hurt on his face when John turned away, but he should be used to it by now, he reminded himself. It would take a while to get through this. He walked to the bed and turned down the covers while John got into it, and watched as John didn't even notice him doing it. Sherlock climbed in beside him, happy just to be close, to be together again, after their time apart. Even if things weren't perfect yet, not by a long shot, he would just have to keep trying. He draped his arm across John's chest yet again, mimicking what they had used to do together. He would never take advantage of John in this state, but just the physical affirmation of his presence helped Sherlock stay focused.

He wasn't tired, really, so he watched John sleep. He looked so peaceful, so normal, even if the slight frown lines on his face never really erased, the slight frown pulling down the corners of his lips even when his conscious mind wasn't telling them to. Sherlock ran a long-fingered, pale hand through John's hair, and heard him sigh in his sleep. Perhaps John really was in there, his body remembered Sherlock's at least. Sherlock was surprised when John moved suddenly though, and almost left the bed, before he realized John's arm was searching for him. Sherlock rolled in closer, and as John's hand found his shoulder it stopped searching. It pulled him closer roughly, and in something like a headlock held him there. Though it was uncomfortable, Sherlock smiled and stayed as still as he possibly could. John was in there, he knew it now. No one else would put him in a headlock in his sleep.

When John woke up he was surprised to find he had the hallucination in a headlock. Looking at the version of Sherlock that his mind had invented, he decided suddenly that perhaps he could enjoy this version of Sherlock, even if he knew it couldn't be real. Perhaps it would be better to live in an insane fantasy than to spend his life half-living in his bleak reality. The hallucination was smiling at him now, moving its lips to form words. John didn't bother waiting to hear them though, he just smiled and turned away. He headed for the shower, trying to remember when the last time was he had taken one. Probably when Mycroft or Molly had been around, after a stroll to St. Bart's. They often made him do things like that when they came by. Perhaps someday he would have enough happiness to thank them with.

He turned on the shower and stripped out of his bathrobe. He felt the warm water running down his back- that was different. He hadn't felt warmth like that for months. He lathered himself with soap before rinsing down, stepping out of the shower and into the clean bathrobe the hallucination was holding up for him. A bit strange, but he would deal with it. It wasn't like he and Sherlock hadn't been well-acquainted with each other's bodies when he had been alive. Then, they had showered before cases together, John surprising Sherlock with a face full of bubbles and Sherlock occasionally returning the favour by turning the water purple. John smiled at the memories as they came, but was careful to let them go and not dwell on it.

John walked back downstairs to be greeted by a surprised looking Mrs. Hudson. Her lips moved as well, but John didn't want his good mood ruined. He was going to live a good day. Then perhaps tonight he could end this. Perhaps he could go on to see Sherlock again where he really was, in heaven, if there was such a place. Instead of looking at death as a negative escape, something for when it all got to be too much, John now looked forward to it.

Sherlock was heartened, though slightly worried, about John's new state of happiness. Perhaps he had moved on from his grief, but this was sudden. He certainly hadn't realized Sherlock was real, or he would have said something, Sherlock was sure. But what had possessed him to look so happy all of a sudden? Sherlock wished he could peer inside his mind like he could most people, dissect the thoughts, deduce his reasoning, but John gave no clues. Sherlock walked behind him, watching his step, always ready to help, but John seemed perfectly fine. To be blunt, Sherlock was worried.

John was looking out the windows now in the living room; the ones that had been blown in in the 'gas line' explosion, the ones that Sherlock had thrown the 'robber' out of when he had threatened Mrs. Hudson. That had been a satisfying day. Very fulfilling, throwing someone who had wronged you out a window six times. He had been about to go for a seventh when the police had shown up, but he hadn't had time. Sherlock wondered if John was remembering the same things he was, or if he was remembering at all. Perhaps he was remembering the tender moments they had shared on the couch, when John hadn't been able to wait for the bedroom. Not that Sherlock had minded.

John was quiet though. Sherlock had never seen him more still, usually he was moving in some way. Crossing the room quickly, Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson a pointed look before turning to John and wrapping his arms around him. John gave a startled cry, as though he hadn't seen Sherlock come up, but as Sherlock began to pull away, he felt John's arms snake around behind him. Suddenly he was being squeezed tightly, and he had to resist the urge to pull away out of discomfort. Reminding himself John didn't believe he was real, Sherlock sighed and resigned himself to being used as a squeeze toy. Perhaps this would convince John he was real.

John could feel the hallucination still. It was standing across the room, beside Mrs. Hudson. She was leaving now, he had seen the hallucination glare at her in the reflection from the window. Sherlock would have been proud of his observation skills. He was reluctant to, but perhaps he should start calling it Sherlock. He had never seen something this vivid, this real, and not had it be true before. But his training reminded him that he was a victim of his own mind; he had been once, and this had to be a repeat. Mrs. Hudson had been interacting with his hallucination though… No two people saw the same things, did they, unless they were real?

He barely dared to hope as its- his- arms encircled John. He was surprised at first, but as he began to pull away John found himself panicking a bit. Whether this was real or not, he wanted to hold onto it. He didn't want to lose it. No matter what it was. He squeezed, and felt him tense before relaxing into it. Perhaps he was squeezing a bit tight, but John didn't really care. He closed his eyes and squeezed harder, feeling the vibrations as the other figure sighed and patted his back. It felt good, natural, like _Sherlock_.

How the hell was he supposed to tell if this was real or not? It all felt so real, yet Sherlock was dead. He had seen it with his own eyes. He had fallen. Granted, John hadn't seen him hit the pavement, but he had seen the end result, felt the lifeless wrist. Those blank, staring eyes. He felt something click in his mind then, a small lock he hadn't known he was hiding opening. The hallucination, Sherlock, had interacted with the other people, hadn't he? He had done the dishes, he had looked at Mrs. Hudson and she had looked back at him. She had seen _him_. John looked up sharply into the eyes, the hopeful, _full of life_, glittering eyes. He reached up and touched the cheekbone, the one so sharp Irene Adler could have cut herself slapping it. The hands around John's waist that had been so kind to John, when John never acknowledged them. The hands that had stroked John's hair and his back, that had turned the water purple and once accidentally dyed John's hair pink, the hands that could play the violin so sweetly. Sherlock had a lot of explaining to do, but he was here. That's what mattered.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John? _John_?" Sherlock's eyes widened, realizing John was actually listening. That he was speaking.

"I love you. Welcome home."

Sherlock said nothing, but squeezed John tighter.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Do something for me? Just one thing?"

"Anything."

"Promise?" John pulled back to look into his eyes.

"Anything, John. Just stay with me and I'll do anything." Sherlock looked into John's eyes as he brushed a hand down his cheek and under his chin, tipping it upwards. John's next words were nearly lost in their kiss.

"Never die again."


End file.
